Strawberry Day
by Rustie73
Summary: Summary: Racetrack invites Spot to dinner and convinces him to try strawberries for the first time. This is a oneshot that grew into three chapters. Humor, Language, SLASH SpotRace
1. Chapter 1

I do not own Newsies (surprise, surprise) therefore I do not own any of the Newsies characters. To the best of my knowledge they are owned by Disney.

I am making no money from this story (another big surprise).

* * *

Humor, Fluff, Language, Mild Slash.

* * *

Summary: Racetrack invites Spot to dinner and convinces him to try strawberries for the first time. (This is a one-shot that grew into three chapters.)

**A/N:** Beta credit to pennylayne who graciously pulled an all-nighter to beta this story.

* * *

**Strawberry Day**

**Chapter one**

Since he was a little boy, Racetrack Higgins looked forward to spring.

There were many wonderful things about the season that made him happy. First of all, he would not have to sleep wearing every stitch of clothing he owned. One tiny wood stove to heat the entire bunk room and washroom was hardly sufficient. Sleeping in his hat and coat had become tiresome somewhere around mid-February. Few things in life felt better to Racetrack than that first day he could step out of the lodging house in his shirt sleeves and vest. The sun surrounding his body while the warm air washed over skin made him feel like he was breathing for the first time since November.

Then there were the races at Sheepshead. Racetrack kept himself busy through the winter by playing cards and shooting dice, but it was the thrill of the horse race that made the blood pulse fervently through his veins. The aroma of cigar smoke and horse manure smelled sweeter than the finest roses to Racetrack Higgins.

There were definitely many things that Racetrack liked about spring, but what he looked forward to the most were the strawberries.

Racetrack longed for the taste of the mid-season berry. But the fruit he desired were not just any strawberries. They were not the early season fruit that was pulpy and reddish green, and not the late season berries that were almost black and too soft to chew.

The strawberries that Racetrack Higgins craved were plump, and ripe, and deep scarlet red. Their heady aroma and firm texture was a lusty combination. The fact that these particular strawberries were short-lived made them even more desirable.  
He developed his love for strawberries before he became Racetrack Higgins. It was back when he still had a family, and a real home, and answered to his given name . . . Anthony.

Mrs. Higgins was a light-hearted woman who loved holidays. She was the kind of person who lived to cook, decorate, and celebrate the events of each season. All of the Higgins' loved strawberries, so she created a special holiday just for her family. She called it Strawberry Day.

After Sundays mass, Anthony and his family would go back home and delight in a breakfast of pancakes and strawberries.

Later, Mr. Higgins would take Anthony and his sister for a long walk in the park while his wife prepared a special Sunday dinner. When they returned, the meal was ready, and the table would be decorated in a beautiful cloth edged in strawberries that Mrs. Higgins had embroidered herself.

The highlight of the day was when Mrs. Higgins served the dessert. It was her special vanilla pound cake with strawberries and whipped cream.

Though his family was gone, Racetrack still looked forward to that one Sunday each spring when the strawberries were at their peak. The fruit still tasted as wonderful as it did when he was a child, but he missed having his family to celebrate the occasion.

Racetrack decided that this year would be different. He would not be spending the day alone. He would celebrate the holiday with his best friend, the King of Brooklyn, himself . . . Spot Conlon.

Race had everything planned weeks in advance. He had saved his money in anticipation of the day. Each morning he would stop at the fruit stands and check the progress of the ripening fruit.

When the fruit was at its peak, he sent word to Spot to be ready on Sunday. Race was going to treat him to the finest dinner in New York.

The two arranged to meet in Brooklyn at noon. Any earlier and it would interfere with selling the Sunday edition. Though Racetrack planned to take the day off from selling, Spot could not afford such a luxury.

Race had arranged everything. There was a small restaurant called Hoffman's not far from the park. Mrs. Hoffman was a sweet woman who baked a delicious vanilla pound cake. It was not as good as his mother's, but it would do in a pinch.  
After telling Mrs. Hoffman about his mother and their special holiday, Mrs. Hoffman gladly agreed to bake her special cake for Racetrack and his guest.

Race selected the fruit himself, and delivered it to Mrs. Hoffman on Saturday evening.

When Sunday morning came, Racetrack awoke early and headed off to mass just as he had done with his family years before. Along the way, he stopped at the flower peddler and bought a red carnation to wear in his lapel. After mass, he started on his walk across the bridge to Brooklyn.

The sun was warm, and there was a beautiful breeze that swirled round him as he traveled. The air smelled clean and fresh. Even the water off Sheepshead Bay smelled different. The familiar smell of seaweed and old fish gave way to the sent of the tall marsh grasses and fresh ocean air.

When Racetrack arrived, Spot was ready as planned. He was wearing his good blue shirt (one of the only two shirts he owned), and his coat and hat had been whisked clean. As always he was sporting his gold tipped cane, which had been meticulously polished for the occasion.

As they walked, Spot pressed Racetrack for the reason he was being treated to dinner.

"Okay, Higgins. Come clean. What's with the dinner invite? I know it ain't your birthday, and it sure as hell ain't mine. So unless someone moved Christmas, or you were a big winner at the track . . . neither of which is likely, then there ain't no reason that I know of to celebrate."

At the risk of sounding too sentimental, Race told Spot the story of Strawberry Day. "Next to Christmas and birthdays Strawberry Day was a big deal in my family. Seein' as I ain't got no family to speak of, I figured that I could suffer through a meal with you."

"That's as good a reason as any to celebrate," Spot said reassuringly. "I suppose that I could force down a meal with you just so long as you don't eat with your fingers or nothin'," he laughed.

"Don't you look forward to the taste of strawberries in the spring?" Race asked.

"I can't say that I do," Spot replied. "I ain't never had a strawberry."

Race stopped dead in his tracks. "Whadda they teach you guys over in Brooklyn, anyway? I can't believe you've never tasted a fresh spring strawberry."

"Well maybe you girls over in Manhattan are rich enough to throw your money away, but I seen them things in the market just last week. They're ten cents a quart. Ten cents! That's the difference between eatin' and goin' hungry for a night. Not to mention that they look kinda nasty with all them red bumps with those dark green spots all over 'em. They look like they'd choke ya before they ever hit your stomach."

"Ah, you don't know what you're missing, Conlon. And besides. They don't look nasty at all. After you take the leaves off'a them and cut them in half, they look like little pink and red hearts."

This time Spot stopped in his tracks. "Little pink and red hearts?" he laughed. "You're this excited over something that looks like little pink hearts? Whadda you gone soft or somethin'? Are you treatin' me to supper or takin' me out on a date?"

Racetrack felt his stomach tighten as his face flushed crimson. "It'll be a cold day in Hell when I have to resort to the likes of you for a date, Conlon. Maybe I should have invited one of the many good lookin' Manhattan girls I know to celebrate with instead'a you!"

"It'll be all right just so long as you don't try to hold my hand or read me any of that sissy poetry you Manhattan guys go for."

"I wouldn't be callin' anybody a sissy of I was you, Conlon. Not with a mug like yours!"

"I didn't call you a sissy. I said that you like to read sissy poetry. And what the hell is wrong with my face!"

"There's nothin' wrong with it. It's just a little girly-lookin' is all."

"Who are you callin' a girl, half pint!"

"I didn't call you a girl. I said you had a face like a girl."

Spot's eyebrows wrinkled and his steely eyes narrowed. "I don't look like a girl!" he shouted as he waved the walking stick in Racetrack's face. "And I'll soak you or anyone else who says that I do!"

"Whatever you say, tough guy," Race replied as he patted Spot on the back. "Now let's get going before we miss dinner altogether."

**End Chapter One**

A/N pennylyane pulled an all-nighter to beta this story. She's great and so are her stories. Please check them out. Strong Men Crumble (easily one of the best Newsies stories I've come across) and Lean on Me are two of my personal favs. They are well worth reading.


	2. Chapter 2

I do not own Newsies (surprise, surprise) therefore I do not own any of the Newsies characters. To the best of my knowledge they are owned by Disney.

I am making no money from this story (another big surprise).

* * *

Humor, Fluff, Language, Mild Slash.

* * *

Summary: Racetrack invites Spot to dinner and convinces him to try strawberries for the first time. (This is a one-shot that grew into three chapters.) 

**A/N:** Beta credit to pennylayne who graciously pulled an all-nighter to beta this story.

* * *

**Strawberry Day**

**Chapter two**

Mrs. Hoffman greeted the boys as they entered the restaurant. "Good afternoon, Mr. Higgins," she smiled. "I have a table all ready for you. It's the best table in the house. It has a view of the park and everything."

Spot raised an eyebrow and nodded at his friend. He was definitely impressed with the first class treatment they were receiving.

When they were seated, Spot looked out the window to take in the view. "I thought she said that this table had a view of the park? All I see is a bunch of buildings."

"It does have a view of the park, but we are two blocks away, ya know," Race replied. "If ya look between these two buildings, and across that empty lot, you can see a bit of the park right there."

Spot leaned across the table, craned his neck, closed one eye, and squinted the other. "Oh yeah. Now I can see it," he laughed.

The meal was wonderful. It was definitely a treat for two boys such as Spot and Race. They had roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, and red cabbage. There were also hot rolls and fresh butter served up with two glasses of Rupperts beer. The two boys ate like they were royalty.

When the meal was through, the waiter brought the dinner check. Racetrack pulled out his coin purse and placed his money on the tray. "And keep the change!" Race said confidently.

Spot was definitely impressed.

Mrs. Hoffman brought a box to the table and set it in front of Racetrack. "Here you are, Mr. Higgins. Just as you ordered," she smiled.

Racetrack picked up the box and the two boys walked to the park. They found a nice comfortable bench and sat down to enjoy the scenery.

"Ya know, Race? This ain't a bad set-up you got here . . . Not bad at all."

"Well, I'm glad that you're enjoyin' yourself, Spot. Now get ready to taste the best dessert you've ever had."

"Look, Race. I appreciate the dinner and all . . . I really do. But I ain't sure about this strawberry business. Like I said. I don't like the look of the things."

"Oh, come on, Spot. Have I ever steered you wrong?"

"A'course ya have! Every time you gave me a tip on a horse, and I lost my shirt!"

"Ah that was just bad luck. This is a sure thing!"

"That does it! Now I know I'm gonna choke to death. Every time you say it's a sure thing, I know I'm in for trouble."

Racetrack realized that he wasn't going to convince Spot to try the strawberries by any conventional method, so he decided to pull out all the stops. He did the one thing that always worked on Spot Conlon.

"Okay, Spot. If you don't wanna try them, it's fine by me. I promise that I won't tell anyone about it."

"Whadda ya mean, you won't tell anyone? Tell them what?"

"Tell them that you are afraid to eat strawberries."

"Whadda you mean, I'm afraid? I ain't afraid of anything."

"Listen, Spot. Don't go gettin' all bent outta shape. You're the bravest guy I know . . . And the toughest too. It's just that I've seen you fight off guys twice your size who _really were_ tryin' to choke ya. I wouldn't want anyone to know that you were afraid of being choked by a little strawberry."

"I ain't afraid of any strawberries, pal! Bring 'em on!"

Race reached into the box, and pulled out one of the delicious looking desserts.

Spot took the cake and carefully examined it. He raised an eyebrow and nodded his head. "This doesn't look too bad," he said. "And you're right, Race. These things do look like little pink and red hearts."

"I told ya," Racetrack grinned.

Spot took a deep breath and bit into the cake. He chewed it quickly then swallowed hard.

Racetrack chuckled a bit when he saw the expression on Spot's face. He looked like he'd just swallowed a mouthful of worms.

"Well, whadda you think?" Race asked.

"This stuff ain't half bad," Spot nodded as he took another bite. "I could get used to eatin' this."

Soon both boys were laughing and enjoying Racetrack's special dessert.

At one point Racetrack noticed that Spot had some whipped cream on his upper lip. Without thinking, Racetrack reached over and wiped Spot's lip with his finger, then licked it clean.

Spot stared at Race with raised eyebrows.

When he realized what he'd done, Race turned bright red. "What?" he mumbled. "You had a whipped-cream mustache!"

"I think you'd better lay off'a them strawberries, little man," Spot chuckled. "They are makin' you act a little crazy!"

"Shuddup, girly-face!" Racetrack laughed.

"Make me, half-pint!" Spot grinned.

When they finished, the boys went for a walk around the park.

After a while, Spot drew his walking stick from his belt and lazily scratched his back. He looked around at the beautiful trees and breathed in the warm spring air. "Like I said, Race. You ain't got a bad set-up around here. I could get used to livin' like this."

"Well, you're welcome here anytime you get tired of Brooklyn," Race smiled.

"Thanks, Race. But nice as this is, I could never leave Brooklyn. I love it too much." Then Spot stopped and lifted up the leg of his pants.

"Whadda you doin'?" Race asked.

"I think that maybe some ants climbed up my leg when we was sittin' on that bench. They're makin' me all itchy! Take a look at my back, will ya, Race? It feels like they're eatin' me alive!"

Racetrack lifted Spot's shirt in search of the ants.

"Jeeze, Spot. You're covered in red blotches. But these don't look like ant bites to me. Maybe you got the measles or the chicken pocks or somethin'?"

"I ain't got the measles or the chicken pocks," Spot bristled. "I had 'em both already. You can't get 'em again once you've had 'em."

"Well, whatever it is, your back is covered with it."

"Damn it," Spot hissed. "What am I gonna do now?"

Racetrack's jaw dropped open as he stared at Spot's face.

"Whadda you lookin' at, moron?"

"Um . . . Spot?. . . You've got spots! . . . Big, red ones. Your face is covered with big, red spots!"

"Son of a . . . What the hell is this? The itch is driving me mad!"

"Come on," Race said. "Let's go back to the lodging house. Mr. Kloppman will know what it is. He takes care of all us guys when we're sick."

"I ain't sick, Race. I feel fine. I'm just itchy is all."

"Well, like I said. Kloppman will know what to do."

-o-o-o-o-o-

When they reached the lodging house, Spot refused to go inside. "I ain't goin' in there, Race. I don't want anyone to see me like this!"

"Well, how are we gonna know what to do if Kloppman doesn't take a look at it?"

"Look, Race. If Cowboy sees me, I'll never hear the end of it. Go get Kloppman and bring him out here!"

Race understood how important pride was to Spot, so he brought Mr. Kloppman outside to the alley.

Kloppman looked at Spot's face and back. "Well, this definitely isn't measles, the chicken pocks, or scarlet fever. Did you touch something that you don't normally touch, or eat something different?" he asked.

"I had some strawberries for dessert," Spot replied.

"That's it, then. You are allergic to strawberries."

"Why, you little bastard," Spot hissed. "You've gone and poisoned me! I told you them things wasn't good for ya!"

**End Chapter two**

* * *

A/N: pennylyane pulled an all-nighter to beta this story. She's great and so are her stories. Please check them out. Strong Men Crumble (easily one of the best Newsies stories I've come across) and Lean on Me are two of my personal favs. They are well worth reading. 


	3. Chapter 3

I do not own Newsies (surprise, surprise) therefore I do not own any of the Newsies characters. To the best of my knowledge they are owned by Disney.

I am making no money from this story (another big surprise).

* * *

Humor, Fluff, Language, Mild Slash.

Summary: Racetrack invites Spot to dinner and convinces him to try strawberries for the first time. (This is a one-shot that grew into three chapters.)

* * *

**A/N:** Beta credit to pennylayne who graciously pulled an all-nighter to beta this story.

* * *

**Strawberry Day**

**Chapter Three - Final Chapter**

"You've poisoned me!" Spot hissed at Racetrack.

"You're not poisoned," Mr. Kloppman laughed. "It's an allergy. Lots of people have them."

"This is great! This is just great!" Spot grumbled. "I'm the toughest guy in New York, and I've been beaten by a little strawberry? If anybody finds out about this, I'm through!"

"Don't go gettin' all excited," Kloppman said. "Nobody is going to find out. Race, take Spot up the fire escape to the sickroom and lock the door. I'll be up in a few minutes."

The two did as instructed and climbed through the sickroom window.

Racetrack sat in the chair and watched as Spot paced back and forth.

"Ya better sit down, Spot. The guys are gonna hear you walkin' around and know that someone is in here."

Spot flopped onto the bed and glared at Racetrack. "I can't believe that you did this to me. You're my best friend and you've gone and poisoned me!"

"Oh, stop overreacting," Racetrack huffed. "You heard what Kloppman said. It's an allergy. He's gonna fix you right up . . . And besides, how was I supposed to know that you are allergic to strawberries? I mean, you are supposed to be the toughest guy in New York, and you can't even eat a strawberry? It is kinda funny when you think about it."

"Funny? You think that this is funny? You little weasel. I'm gonna - -"

Spot's words were cut off by Mr. Kloppman knocking on the door.

"You'd better keep your voices down," he said when Race unlocked the door. "I could hear the two of you arguing half way up the stairs."

Mr. Kloppman began to unpack the box he was carrying. "Okay, Race. Here's what you gotta do. Put some of this witch hazel on the cloth and wash him down every now and again. It will help to soothe the skin and heal the rash. Then take a little of this baking soda, and mix it with water to make a paste. Then dot it on all of the red spots. This should stop the itching. The paste is gonna dry out after a while, then you're gonna have to do the whole thing over again."

"What's the whiskey for?" Race asked.

"That's to make Spot here relax and get some sleep. . . . You'd better have some yourself, Race. It'll keep you from wanting to kill him after listening to him complain all night!"

Spot didn't respond to Mr. Kloppman's remark. He just glared through the mop of bangs that were hanging in front of his face.

"Nobody should bother you, but keep the door locked anyway. I told the guys that Race came home sick and that he might have the measles. They all know that nobody is to come near that door until I say that it's okay. Now, Race. If you need me, you're gonna have to go back down the fire escape and knock on my window. Then I'll come up and give you a hand."

"Will do," Race said. "And thanks a lot, Kloppman."

"You're welcome, Race," he replied. Then he looked over at Spot. "You're welcome, too, Spot."

"Yeah, um . . . thanks, Mr. Kloppman," Spot grumbled.

"Well, goodnight, boys. And try not to kill each other, okay?"

They said goodnight and Racetrack locked the door. "Okay, Spot. Take off your shirt and let's get started."

"I don't need your help, pal. You've done enough already."

Race watched as Spot poured the witch hazel on the cloth and started to wash his body. When he couldn't reach his back Spot took the bottle and poured it over his shoulder. The cold liquid made him shiver as it ran down his back and collected in the seat of his pants.

"Are you sure that you don't need any help?" Race grinned. "You're gonna get awful wet by morning if you keep trying to do that yourself."

Spot ignored his friend and continued to wash. When he tried to pry the lid off the tin of baking soda it slipped in his hand and a shower of white powder covered his already wet pants. "Son of a bitch!" he spat as he dumped some of the powder into the cup. Spot glanced up through his bangs to see if Racetrack was watching.

Race took his playing cards out of his pocket, and began to shuffle the well-worn deck. Then he laid them out on the table for a game of solitaire.

Spot took the pitcher and poured some water into the cup. He stuck in his finger to stir the mixture, but instead of a paste, he ended up with something that looked like watered down milk.

"Son of a - - "

"Okay, Spot," Race grinned as he handed his friend the whiskey. "I think that you need this more than you need that stuff right now."

Spot uncorked the bottle and took two large swallows. Then Race handed him a cigarette.  
Spot watched as Race added more baking soda to the water, mixed it up with his finger, and magically created the paste.

"Turn around," Race ordered.

Spot hesitated for a moment. Then he took another swig of from the bottle and turned his back toward Race. Spot continued to sip the whiskey as Race dotted him with the baking soda mixture.

"Stand up," Race said as he covered the path of Spot's spots over the shoulder and down onto his chest. He was a bit surprised to see how well-developed his friend was. Spot looked much thinner with his shirt on. Race was sure that his face was bright red as his finger dotted down the muscles of Spot's arm then back up to his strong chest. He began to sweat when he glanced up and saw Spot watching him from under his bangs.

"How do ya feel," Race asked as his finger dotted across Spot's chest.

"I dunno, Race . . . You tell me," he replied with a smirk. "How do I feel?"

Spot's warm breath ghosted Race's ear and a flash of heat washed over him. He was sure that his entire body must have been blushing.

Spot wasn't sure why the sight of Race blushing pleased him, but he knew that it did. He didn't know if it was the whiskey, or the baking soda, or the care he was receiving that was making him feel better, but he was beginning to feel very good.

"What's the matter, Race? Your face is all red."

"It's a little hot in here," he replied without looking up.

"Gee, ya think so? I guess that you would feel hot, seeing as I have my shirt off and all."

"Yeah . . . Um . . . What? . . . Hey, whadda you mean by that!"

"Nothin', Race. It's just that you have all your clothes on. I've just got my pants and shoes. You should feel hotter than I do."

"Yeah . . . Okay," Race said as he put down the cup and reached for the whiskey. He took three healthy swallows, then coughed a bit as it burned his dry throat.

Race glanced over and saw Spot grinning.

"What the hell are you lookin' at?" Race huffed.

"Oh, nothin'," Spot smirked.

"Well, that should stop the itchin' for a while."

For a moment, Spot thought that he might be going too far, but watching Race squirm was too good to pass up.

"But what about the rest of me?" Spot smirked, gesturing down at his pants.

"Excuse me?"

"These spots don't end at my waist you know. Whadda you gonna do about the rest of me?"

"I think that you can handle the rest of it by yourself."

"Oh, come on, Race. Have a heart," Spot said as he wiggled his eyebrows. "You wouldn't want to see your best friend suffer, would you?"

"I wouldn't want to see my best friend's anything!"

"Be a sport, Race, and help me out here?"

"Look, Spot. You're the best friend that I've ever had. I'll stand side-by-side with you in any fight. I'll give you my last nickel if you need it. I'll even give up my life for you, if it comes down to that. But there is absolutely no way in hell that I'm going to dot your privates with itch medicine!"

"Okay, pal," Spot grinned, being satisfied that he'd made Race squirm enough. "I guess I can handle this part myself."

Race shuffled his cards and laid out another game of solitaire.

Spot removed his pants and tossed them onto the bed, then turned away and pulled his longjohns down to his knees. He took the cup and began to cover his spots with the soothing paste.

Race tried to concentrate on his card game, but he couldn't help glancing over at Spot. He could see the remains of last year's suntan as the darkness of Spot's back faded down to the pale white of his Irish skin. He watched the muscles in his friend's back flex as he bent over to treat the spots on the lower half of his body. Race knew that he should look away, but he did not. The heat that covered his body had now settled in his groin and he was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

"You sure that you don't wanna help me out here?" Spot asked as he turned slightly and pointed at his behind.

Race choked on his cigar when he saw the smirk on Spot's face. He was sure that he had been caught sneaking a peek. Race squirmed in his seat as Spot's steely eyes examined him. The discomfort in his trousers became more noticeable, so he slid his chair further under the table to hide the evidence.

"Pull up your drawers already, and let's play some cards," Race grumbled, trying to regain his composure.

"Okay," Spot laughed. "But are you sure that you don't want to take another look? You seemed pretty interested in looking at my ass a minute ago."

"It was hard _not_ to notice. It's so damn white, it was like looking at a snowman's ass in a blizzard!"

Spot grimaced as he pulled up his longjohns, and Race realized that he had gained the upper hand.

Spot sat down at the table and looked at the cards. "The red queen goes on the black king," he huffed. "And move that five over to the six. And . . . "

Spot got up and walked around the table. "Jeeze, Race. If you're gonna play the game, do it right. The seven goes on the eight, then you can move this whole stack over onto the queen and . . . And what the hell is that!" Spot hissed glaring at Racetrack's lap.

"What is what?"

"That!" Spot said, pointing at the article in question.

"Are- - are we gonna play cards or not?" Race stammered.

"Not until you explain that!"

"There's nothin' to explain," Race said in an attempt to cover his embarrassment. "You know damn well what it is. All of us guys have one."

"Yeah? Well, they usually don't look like that!"

"How the hell would you know? Do you make a habit of looking at my personal parts? What is it that you guys do over in Brooklyn, anyway?"

Spot's face flamed red. He lifted Racetrack up by his shirtfront and pulled him so close that they were nose-to-nose. "Whadda you mean by that, Higgins?" he spat.

"Look whose face is red now," Racetrack smirked. "I guess it's hotter in here than you thought."

Spot pushed Race away and went to sit on the bed.

After watching Race play several hands of solitaire, Spot began to feel guilty about their argument. After all, the entire thing was his fault. He had been pushing Race pretty hard. So what if he got more of a reaction out of Race then he expected? Things happen. It didn't mean anything, he told himself.

Spot dragged himself off of the bed and sat at the table. "Deal me in," he mumbled.

"What do you want to play?" Race asked.

"Well, I'd say strip poker, but I'm already at a disadvantage," Spot grinned.

Racetrack laughed and the tension between them was gone. They played cards, sipped whiskey, and talked for an hour or so when Spot's itching returned.

"Dammit!" Spot grumbled.

"You'd better keep your voice down. The fellas are gonna start getting ready for bed soon. I'm supposed to be in here by myself. Remember?"

"But this itchin' is making me crazy!"

"Okay, pal. Let's see what we can do to make you feel better."

Racetrack took his handkerchief and whisked the dry baking soda from his friend's body. Then he gently washed Spot's skin with the cool witch hazel.

"Damn, that feels good," Spot sighed.

Race prepared more of the paste and began covering Spot's hives. This time, he was determined not to look Spot in the eye. He did not want a repeat of the earlier incident.

The scent of shaving soap, bay rum, and cigar smoke filled Spot's senses as Racetrack gently soothed his skin.

Spot touched the side of Race's face and ran his thumb along the cheek.

"Um . . . Spot?. . . What the hell are you doing?"

"You've got some baking soda on your face," he said.

"Oh," Race mumbled, realizing that his attempt not to blush was failing miserably.

Spot did not remove his hand and kept rubbing Race's cheek.

"Damn, Spot. It must be gone by now. How much of that stuff is on me anyway?"

"I don't know. Let me get a better look," he said as he tilted Race's face up toward his own.  
Spot gently pressed his lips against Race's, and a warm surge ran through his body.

Race jumped back and fell over the bedpost. He tumbled backward, and landed headfirst on the floor.

"Are you all right?" Spot asked, climbing over the bed to reach him.

"I'm not sure," Racetrack mumbled. He opened his eyes and saw the ceiling spinning over his head.

Spot helped him off of the floor and sat him on the bed.

"Am I bleeding?" Race asked pointing to the back of his head.

"Nah. But you are going to have one hell of a bump by tomorrow."

Race shook his head, and when his vision cleared, he noticed the bulge in Spot's longjohns.

"What the hell is that?" Race asked.

"What, this?. . . I'm pretty sure that you know what this is," Spot smirked.

"I know what it is, you ass. But why is it . . . Well, why the hell does it look like that!"

"Oh, that's the way it always looks."

"The hell it does!" Race huffed.

"How the hell would you know? Do you make a habit of looking at my personal parts?"

"A habit? . . . No. I wouldn't exactly call it a habit. It's just something that I've recently found interesting," Racetrack grinned.

Again, Spot touched the side of Racetrack's face.

"More baking soda?" Race asked as the warmth of Spot's hand radiated through his body.

"Nope . . . Do you mind?" Spot asked with a tentative smile.

There was no mistaking Race's answer as he firmly pressed his lips against Spot's.

-o-o-o-o-

The next morning, Race was awakened by the sound of Mr. Kloppman knocking on the sickroom door. He tried to move but realized that he was being held in place by Spot's arms and legs wrapped around him. Spot was sleeping soundly and the faint sound of snoring was escaping his open mouth.

Race gently slid away from Spot, and searched for his trousers. They had been carelessly tossed under one of the chairs. As he pulled them on, he shivered from the feel of the cold morning air on his bare chest. He opened the door with an enormous yawn, then closed his eyes and leaned against the door frame.

Racetrack's face and body were covered with remnants of the baking soda that had been on Spot's body the night before. Even his hair was speckled with clumps of the dried paste.

"Looks like you boys had a rough night," Kloppman chuckled.

"Yeah. He was pretty uncomfortable for a while."

Mr. Kloppman looked over at Spot who was also smeared with the remains of the paste. "Seems as though you found a way to make him feel better," he grinned.

"I did what you told me to do, and it seemed to help," Race mumbled.

"Looks like you did more than that!" Kloppman laughed.

"Huh . . . What?" Race yawned.

"Never mind, Race. Go back to sleep, and I'll wake you before the afternoon edition comes out."

"Yeah . . . Okay . . . Thanks, Kloppman."

Race was still half asleep when he locked the door. He removed his trousers and tossed them on the chair, then crawled back into bed. He shivered as he slid under the blanket and leaned against Spot's warm body.

"Mornin'," Spot mumbled as he put his arms around Race.

"Mornin'," Race replied without opening his eyes.

"You've got baking soda in your hair," Spot said as he ran his fingers through the dark waves.

"How ya feelin' this mornin'?" Race mumbled into his pillow.

"I've never felt better. And you?"

"I'm not the one who was covered in spots," Race replied, trying to avoid answering the_ real_ question.

"Come on, Race. You know what I'm talkin' about. How do you feel about this . . . About last night . . . Whadda ya think about what we did last night?"

Race didn't answer.

"Look, Race. I know you ain't sleepin'. If you were, you'd be snoring. I don't think that I've ever heard anyone snore as loud as you!"

"I'm awake," Race said as he rolled over to face Spot. "I'm just thinkin' is all."

Spot ran his hand along the warm smooth skin of Race's side. "Do you want to tell me what's goin' on in that head of yours?" Spot asked as his hand came to rest on Race's hip.

"Well, I've never done anything like that before."

"Neither have I," Spot said nonchalantly.

The tone of Spot's voice and his agility the night before made Race think that he was being less than truthful.

"Are you sorry about last night?" Spot asked as he stroked the remainder of the paste from Race's hair.

"No. . . . But it's not exactly the way I pictured celebrating Strawberry Day."

"So you thought that poisoning me would be the highlight of the evening?"

"There you go overreacting again. I didn't poison you. You have an allergy. It's not my fault you can't handle eating a little strawberry."

"Aah. Don't get your knickers twisted, little man."

"I ain't wearing any," Race laughed.

Spot lifted up the blanket and grinned. "Gee . . . You're right. You aren't wearing any."

Spot pulled him closer and Race snuggled against his chest.

"It's okay, Race. You can poison me any time you like if you cure me the same way as you did last night! And if this was my initiation to Strawberry Day, I can't wait to see what you have planned for next year!"

"This is kinda nice," Race said as he snuggled closer. He closed his eyes as thoughts of the previous night ran happily through his mind.

Race's eyes shot open when he felt a foreign object come between him and Spot.

"Um . . . Spot . . . What's that?"

"What's what?" Spot smirked.

"That," Race said as he pointed at the blanked covering the object in question.

"I think that you know what it is," Spot chuckled.

"Well, I know one thing for sure. It ain't no basket of strawberries," Race sniggered.

"Well, why don't you take a closer look and maybe you can figure it out for yourself?"

"I think I will," Race smirked as he flung the blanket off the bunk. "I think I will."

END Story.

Thanks for reading. Please review.

* * *

**A/N:** pennylyane pulled an all-nighter to beta this story. She's great and so are her stories. Please check them out. Strong Men Crumble (easily one of the best Newsies stories I've come across) and Lean on Me are two of my personal favs. They are well worth reading. 


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